I’ve been writing a lot of public letters lately. Honestly, it’s been fun to commemorate birthdays, retirements and other such shenanigans with a written word or two. I’m humbled both by the quality of character I’ve had the opportunity to write about and that I’ve been asked to contribute to the amassed work for such momentous events.

But it occurs to me that a change is quickly coming that deserves the same level of quiet contemplation. All too often we miss the transitions that should demand reflection, and I am blessed to have been made aware of this particular coming before its passing.

That said, I’m not sure what reflection this particular event should drum up within me. Certainly there are any number of feelings whose presence I can neither deny nor defend. There’s a little anger mixed with a hint of betrayal, but that’s nothing more than the dark tip of an otherwise bright and joyful iceberg adrift in an ocean of hope. Like any ocean, there are any number of competing currents, and I struggle to find one more preferable than the next.

It’s a bit strange to be stuck in the middle of an ocean during a period of abrupt change. Even in the midst of boundless hope, hope is far too easy to lose. And like any dark spot on a broad bright background, my feelings of abandonment percolate without any logical justification.

It’s nearly laughable; I have no claim to these feelings. I have wrestled them from the void, intensely fought no one to defend my uncontested ownership, and built fortress upon fortress in a barren land to protect what could never be mine from an enemy army of my own invention. The mere pretense that I should perch atop this iceberg nestled in the center of this ocean is the pinnacle of absurdity.

And yet, here I sit, watching the changing stars paint a portrait in the twilight of a future to come that I more welcome than fear, in which I delight more than dread. And I love my perch; apart from it I would never witness the coming dawn; the changing of this soft night into glorious day.

Change is the inspiration and media for beauty. And yet, in that same instant, change can so easily turn that dark spot of anger and betrayal into overwhelming ugliness. The fear of crashing waves and violent undertows can make even the brightest ocean of hope into a grim foreboding tempest.

Yet, this is not reality. There is no storm, no dark clouds, no evil hand at work turning the wind and weather into an unrelenting foe. Change comes to us with an olive branch we mistake as a sword. It’s laurels must be thorns, it’s incense, spears. We take all that it offers as offense and its gifts as base punishment.

But these offerings are meant to bless and enrich, in the end seeking only growth, encouragement, and enlightenment. Change on its own is only good; we call “bad” change that does not meet with our expectations. It demands that we see good and bad in a new light; that good is what is, and bad is what is not. What comes is not by fate, nor by chance, but by design. This design is only for the glory of the Designer, and those whom He, by His own design, has set apart for glory.

And so here I sit, perched upon my iceberg, surrounded by hope in all directions, patiently awaiting the dawn of a new day, with a million competing feelings and desires.